My teammates set up for the puck drop to the right of my net, and Owen looked back at me while they milled around.
“Alright, Royce?”
“Better than ever,” I said, setting up at the top of the crease. It was second nature to me: knees tucked, on the balls of my feet, stick forward, glove out, and for good measure, I tapped the endof my stick’s shaft to the post to make sure I was in the right spot. Bring it on, assholes.
Our penalty kill was on fire. Why couldn’t they play like that during regular play? Either that, or Colorado’s power play was terrible about turning the puck over. Every time they did, which was three times, our guys dumped it down to the other end, making Colorado start from scratch. I was thirty seconds from having the pressure off. A guy from Colorado fired a shot off my leg pad, and I swept the rebound away with my stick.
Beaver taps slammed in Colorado’s goal, signifying the end of the power play. Play was stopped for a TV timeout, and I was more than ready for the water break.
When I turned to spray some water over my face, there she was.
“Hi, Chef,” I mouthed. She did that goofy thing of looking on both sides of her before pointing at herself.
“Yeah, you.” I pulled off my helmet and set it on top of the net. I splashed a stream of water toward the glass where she stood. She flinched, but she and Miguel laughed.
Owen coasted into view, giving me a curious look. “Chef?” he mouthed at me.
I shook my head before flipping my hair back and sliding my helmet back on. When I oriented myself again, Owen was right in front of me. “You guys are actually friends now?”
“She’s my teacher. We see each other a fair amount for lessons.”
Owen let me off with a “hmph” before skating off.
“Keep your strokes low.Slow ovals. Good.”
Emma stood next to me at my kitchen island as we worked on my pasta skills. These were some of the moments of our lessons I enjoyed best: just her and me, a quiet task, our hands making nothing into something.
“Now, as it mixes in, slowly incorporate the next layer of flour, like the rings of a tree.”
“And we’re not using the press? I have one,” I said.
She shook her head. “I want you to understand how to do it by hand. Then, when you do use the press again, you’ll be that much sharper.”
“Right.”
Her phone rang on the kitchen island with a Sabrina Carpenter song.
“What kind of millennial bullshit is that?” I laughed. “A song ringtone? Who even lets their phone ring?”
She planted me with a sharp look. “Moms with teenagers who drive. That’s Liam’s ringtone.”
“Big ‘Espresso’ fan, huh?”
“Hey, Li.” Emma’s lips popped open, a stricken expression taking over her face. “Where are you?”
She tucked the phone into her shoulder and started washing her hands at the sink. “What mile marker? It’s the things in the middle of the road, yeah. That. Were you going north or south?”
Her hands shook as she dug for her keys in her tote bag.
“What’s wrong?” I mouthed.
“And you’re off the road? Far enough that no one will hit you? Are your flashers on?”
“Where is he?” I asked. “Did you ever change his oil?”
Emma’s eyes were watery. Something was wrong with Liam’s car and she was freaking out. I rinsed off my hands. I wasn’t letting her go alone.
“Stay in the car, okay? With your seatbelt on. I’ll call a tow truck and come get you. It’ll be alright, baby. I love you.”
